


Loose Ends

by liketolaugh



Series: In Another Life [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Again, Bad Ending, Central is Evil, F/M, This is getting to be a bad habit, everyone dies, possible ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketolaugh/pseuds/liketolaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of the Holy War, CROW decides it no longer needs the exorcists. And CROW is nothing if not efficient. When a weapon is no longer needed - it gets put away. And one by one, the exorcists are assassinated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lenalee

**January 12, 1875 - London, England**

Lenalee and Komui lived in London. Every day, Komui would ask her where she wanted to spend the day, and she would choose a street. Komui would drop her off with some money, and then go to work.

Today, she had chosen a street with a flower shop, and she smiled as she knelt down to smile at the witch hazel.

“Are you alright there, Miss Lee?”

Lenalee looked up and smiled at the shop owner - Denise Rosenquist - reassuringly. “I’m fine,” she promised. Denise still looked worried; she was quite fond of Lenalee, who visited often, sometimes for hours at a time. “Can I buy some of these? I think they’d be nice to have at the house.”

Denise smiled at her. “Of course you can.” She reached down to help Lenalee stand. Lenalee’s legs wobbled dangerously, and she couldn’t quite hide her wince as pain shot up and down them. Denise didn’t fail to notice this and sighed. “It’s a shame, really, that you hurt your legs so badly. You’re so beautiful.”

Lenalee offered her a wan smile. “Life happens, Denise,” she said fondly, a strange touch of wisdom in her eyes. With Denise’s help, she made her way over to a stool, and sat down while Denise went back to gather a small bouquet of witch hazel for Lenalee while the girl looked through her purse for the appropriate amount.

It had taken some getting used to, not being able to do these things for herself. But in the eight months since she’d hurt her legs (fighting Sheryl, the bastard) and the two months since the war had ended, she’d settled into a routine.

The wheelchair, now sitting outside the door it couldn’t fit through – Komui had designed it himself, to be as forgiving as possible, but… After spending so long flying faster than sound, it had taken some getting used to.

She was nineteen now, and by civilian standards, her life would be tough from here on out, made virtually unable to marry by the injuries to her legs. As far as Lenalee was concerned, though, she was just getting started.

“Here you go, Miss Lee.”

Lenalee looked up and smiled at Denise. “Lenalee,” she reminded the woman, and exchanged the bouquet for some pounds. “And thank you, Denise, these are lovely.”

“It’s nothing, Lenalee,” Denise replied, tucking the money away. “Are you moving on now?”

Lenalee nodded thoughtfully, and, with the bouquet in one hand, she used the other to carefully lever herself up. Denise hurried to help her, and Lenalee replied with a grateful smile. “Yes, I think so. I was going to go get lunch.”

Denise smiled at her. “Would you like some help getting there?” she offered.

Lenalee smiled brightly, violet eyes sparkling. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Denise assured her, holding Lenalee’s elbow as the girl clutched onto her shoulder. “Where do you want to go?”

Lenalee considered for a moment, shivering slightly in the cold winter air despite her thick coat, and Denise paused to close and lock the door behind her, marking it as closed for now. “How about Mr. Vereen’s shop?” she asked, dropping into the chair and nodding to a small restaurant a few shops down.

“Then let’s go,” Denise smiled, and started to push the chair along, while Lenalee held the flowers in her lap. Behind them, a matched set of footprints and wheel treads left their mark in the snow.

Contented, Lenalee glanced around – and then she noticed something _different._ Three men, not far away, sitting at a table, two with black hair and one with blond. They weren’t looking at her - there was, in fact, nothing at all to distinguish them, save the two dots on each of their foreheads.

CROW.

Her head tilted slightly. “Huh,” she said softly.

Denise glanced down at her. “Lenalee?” she questioned concernedly.

Lenalee shook her head and looked away, her gaze falling to the flowers on her lap. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” What could CROW possibly be doing here?

Denise’s concerned gaze lingered on her for a few more moments, but then she let it go and looked back to the front. “Almost there,” she noted.

Lenalee glanced back up at the CROW again, unable to help herself; the CROW still made her tense, after all this time. She watched them as they stood, and turned toward her, and felt her heart skip a beat.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was nothing.

She turned her gaze away again.

“Denise,” Lenalee said carefully, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. “I think I can make it from here.”

Denise turned and gave her a startled look. “Huh?”

“I think I can make it from here,” Lenalee repeated. She turned and gave Denise a serious look, the most serious look she could muster. “Go back to your shop, open it back up. If anyone asks, today was the first time I’d been there, and you helped me here because you’re a nice person, but headed back because I said I could make it. Okay?”

“Lenalee? What’s wrong?” Denise was squeezing her arm subconsciously, visibly anxious, eyes round and innocent teddy-bear brown.

“Go,” Lenalee said firmly. Her eyes darted to the CROWs, and one stared back; his expression made her shiver more than the cold did. She could see spell strips just peeking out of their sleeves, and the almost imperceptible signs of the switchblades on their wrists.

Denise followed her gaze and paled. “Lenalee? Are you in trouble?” she asked urgently.

 _“Go,”_ Lenalee hissed, reaching back to push her urgently. “Trust me, you can’t help. Just follow my instructions, okay?” She paused to give Denise a reassuring, if weak, smile. “You’ll be fine.”

Denise stared at her for few seconds, worried, but then, finally, nodded once, let go of the handles, and stepped back. Lenalee took hold of the rims, and Denise turned around and hurried back to her shop, shooting a few anxious looks back to Lenalee.

Lenalee took a deep breath, steeled herself, and pushed forward, considering the sting at her ankles and the gazes burning into the side of her head. Would it be worth it? Should she…?

Then one of them approached her, and the other two disappeared. The man in front of her, with black hair and green eyes, met her gaze as she tipped her head back to look up at him, and it was clear that there would be no playing around.

Sure enough, two steps later, she was pulled out of her wheelchair and into the alley, and she gasped out, despite half-expecting it. The witch hazel fell from her lap and scattered across the mouth of the alley, bright against the cold white snow, while she stumbled against the wall, legs trembling.

With a thought, she tried to activate her boots, but it was too late - two long ribbons of Binding Wing spell strips wound around her legs, and she fell to her knees with a cry. A second later, her hands were bound behind her back.

“Lenalee Lee,” the CROW who’d stopped her said, arms crossed and eyes vicious. “Combat exorcist, thirteen years of experience, 97% synchro. High risk.”

Lenalee lifted her head to glare at them, violet eyes flashing. “What do you want?” she demanded, voice bitter and one step short of loud. “We’re _done!_ We won! It’s over!”

“The apostles are too dangerous to have among normal humans,” the second, with black hair and brown eyes, explained, not looking at her.

The third flicked his switchblade open, and her eyes widened. “Don’t scream,” he warned, blond hair with brown eyes. “Anyone who comes running will have to die, too.”

Lenalee swallowed, and struggled to stand up. But it was hard enough _without_ the weight of the binding seal, and she failed, knees planted in the inches-deep snow, and glared up at them, but daren’t say a word too loud - Denise would come running for sure.

“You’re despicable,” she hissed instead, long-held hatred bubbling up and spilling from her lips. “Who have you killed already? _How many of my friends, you bastards?”_

“None yet,” the third replied. He reached forward and pulled her red scarf down, casting it aside while she flinched away. He batted aside her reaching hand, and in a flash, his knife plunged forward, and Lenalee felt it slice across her throat.

She gasped and choked, eyes widening, blood pouring down into her lungs. She coughed, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get any air at all. A low buzz rang in her ears, and her vision was darkening already, black eating the edges away. Her hand twitched as if to try and cover the wound, but a tug at her wrist stopped her short.

“We’ll have to get her brother too,” the third said to the first, while he sheathed his dirtied blade. “I am certain he’ll have means of contacting the rest of the apostles, and they cannot know we are coming.”

“I’ll get him,” said the first with a curt nod, turning to leave.

Lenalee gasped, eyes struggling to close, and tried to stand again. She failed, of course, and then she was on the ground, struggling to breathe, drowning in her own blood, cheek pressed against the icy-cold snow, hands still bound behind her back.

 _“Brother,”_ she tried to say, but couldn’t get the breath. Her vision had gone grayscale, and it was darkening by the moment. She could see the end of her scarf less than a foot away, and the stain creeping toward it.

The second knelt in front of her, looked at her with unreadable dark eyes.

“Don’t bother,” he said quietly. “You’re already dead, apostle.”

Her brother. Her friends. She had to warn them.

“You will be rewarded in Heaven.”

She couldn’t move.

“But you can’t stay here.”

She couldn’t sit up.

“It is God’s will.”

She couldn’t feel anything, or see, and even her hearing was drifting away, sounds becoming more and more distant.

_Allen, Lavi, Kanda... Miranda, Marie… Krory… Everyone… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…_

She felt so cold.

_Brother…_

An hour later, a worried Denise came looking for Lenalee. She found her in the alley, throat slit in snow dyed red, and screamed.


	2. Miranda and Marie

**March 3, 1875 - Mittenwald, Germany**

Marie and Miranda lived in Germany. Marie worked odd jobs, while Miranda did her best to learn to repair things - something she’d always wanted to do, but never been very good at.

For some reason, it didn’t seem as hard as she remembered.

“And then you slot that right in, there ya go,” the old man, Dustin Hebenstreit, instructed, guiding Miranda through the motions.

Tongue sticking out slightly in concentration, Miranda slotted the last two pieces together and looked at Dustin hopefully. “Did I do it?” she asked, red bangle swaying on her wrist and clinking against the finished desk clock.

Dustin picked it up and considered it from all angles, and then nodded. “You did it,” he confirmed gruffly, but there was a hint of pride to his voice, and Miranda beamed.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed happily, bouncing up to throw her arms around the old man. “Thank you so much!”

“Alright, alright,” Dustin growled at her, halfheartedly pushing. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. You’ve got a long ways to go before you can do this for a living.”

Miranda nodded seriously and sat back down, eyes still shining with delight. “Okay. What now?”

It had been a challenge to find a place to settle, with restlessness driving them away from the rest of the Order and worry keeping them close, but Miranda loved it here – it was a small town without many people, but most of them were friendly and had received her and Noise extremely well.

And despite the distance, Allen had been very good about keeping everyone in contact, while Kanda had threatened Marie with murder if he wasn’t invited to the wedding. (Miranda was pretty sure he was joking. Maybe. She’d been too busy blushing to decide, really, because even if she was hoping he would, Marie hadn’t-)

She hadn’t heard from Lenalee in a while, though.

Marie ducked in through the open door before Dustin could answer. “I heard something about a success?” he said more than asked, bestowing Miranda with a proud smile of his own. Miranda beamed back.

“I fixed the clock!” she told him, even knowing full well he’d heard everything. “I didn’t mess up once, Noise!”

Marie gave her a broad grin and strode over to offer a proud squeeze with one arm across her shoulders. “Well done,” he said, knowing how much this meant to her.

“Yes, yes,” Dustin grumbled, before the pair could get too sappy. “Weren’t you fixing my roof, Marie?”

Marie chuckled. “I’m almost finished,” he promised. “I thought I’d come in to offer my congratulations.” He straightened up. “Just give me a few more minutes.”

And then he paused, frowning and tipping his head, one hand coming up to his ear automatically to listen more closely. Miranda stilled, eyes turning serious and wary; their alertness had died down a little since November and the end of the war, but both of them agreed that safe was better than sorry, and Marie still had his headphones.

Dustin, oblivious to all but Marie’s sudden attentiveness, frowned at him. “Marie? What is it?”

“Something strange,” he murmured vaguely. Still listening. “I-”

Two needles soared in through the open door. Both impaled themselves in Miranda’s wrist before anyone could react, and she cried out, other hand darting to it quickly, scrambling to pull them out.

For a moment, both males stared at her dumbly. Then Marie whirled to face the door, the ringed fingers of his left hand stretching out threateningly.

“Who’s there?” he demanded in a low, authoritative voice.

Two men, one with black hair and green eyes, the other with blond hair and blue eyes, entered through the door, and Dustin stood up, bristling angrily.

“Get out of my house!” he snapped. “What do you bumlickers think you’re doing, attacking someone while they’re in my home?”

The man with blond hair and blue eyes studied him pityingly for a long moment, and then, finally, said, “Lotto and Marie are wanted by CROW for reasons to which you are not privy. Hand them over peacefully and we’ll leave you alone.”

To his credit, Dustin barely reacted to the news that his two acquaintances were apparently wanted; he just scowled at the CROWs harder. He opened his mouth, but Marie spoke first.

“CROW,” Marie greeted lowly, tugging Miranda behind him, a wrinkle in his brow as he faced the CROW. “What do you want? I believe the exorcists were released from the Vatican’s control when the Holy War ended.” _As we were owed,_ he didn’t say.

The blond’s gaze cut away, a small frown decorating his face, but the black-haired man stepped forward with a slight sneer. He flicked his wrist, and a spell circle surrounded them and activated; they could no longer get out.

“Noise Marie,” he identified, green eyes disdainful. “Combat exorcist, eleven years of experience, 83% synchro. Mentally stable, low risk.” His gaze cut to Miranda, who took a step back, hand still clutching her wrist. “Miranda Lotto, non-combat exorcist, two years of experience, 94% synchro. High risk.” He smiled coldly. “We at CROW have been ordered to exterminate you and your kind, for the safety of the _real_ humans in the world.”

Miranda gasped softly, and Marie gritted his teeth. Dustin, by contrast, took a step forward.

“You have no right!” he snapped harshly. “I may not know what you’re talking about, but Marie and Lotto are no threat to anyone, and if you think otherwise then you’re nothing but fools!”

No sooner had he finished speaking than did a needle sprout from his throat. His eyes widened, and he choked, one wrinkled old hand going up to feel the intrusion site.

Within moments, he’d turned blue and then purple, his knees folded, his eyes shut, and he died with nothing but a harsh wheeze.

Miranda paled sharply, but she didn’t scream, just stared at the CROW, chest heaving, hands tight to her chest, the corners of her eyes strained in a half-glare. The blond wasn’t looking at either of them, nor the body at the ground, but the green-eyed man met her gaze evenly, twirling another needle in his hand.

“I expect you’ve noticed by now that you can’t activate,” he said, almost conversationally, still twirling the needle gently. (She had, and it terrified her.) “One of the powers of these CROW needles, you see.” His lips curled in a smirk. “We’ve been planning this a long time now.” He glanced at his fellow, and his lip curled. “Samson. You’re slacking.”

Samson startled slightly, and then nodded sharply. A moment later, spell strips fell from his sleeves and shot to Marie, who had been attempting to subtly activate his Innocence.

But it was too late now; his hands were bound, and his glare returned.

“Who’s still alive?” he asked, voice low, still as composed as ever, even in the face of certain death. His arm brushed against Miranda’s, and while she could feel his tension, it helped keep her breath a little steadier.

“Almost all of them,” Samson replied, eyes still gazing off to one side. His face was carefully neutral. “Lenalee Lee is dead.” Miranda let out a whimper, eyes filling with tears, and Marie’s face pinched as well, one arm going around Miranda to pull her close. “Kanda Yuu is our next target.”

The girl who’d welcomed each exorcist with a smile and a promise of family, and the boy who’d used up every scrap of his life force defending his friends.

Marie let out a quiet growl, and the black-haired man scowled at his companion.

“They don’t need to know this,” he snapped at him. “They’ll be dead soon anyway.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Samson countered, voice indifferent.

“Hm.” The black-haired man studied Samson, and then snorted and looked at them. His switchblade flicked out. “Let’s wrap this up.”

Marie took a deep breath, and Miranda’s eyes widened, her breath leaving with nothing but a hitching, wordless whisper.

She wanted to say something, to say anything, to Marie, to Noise, but the words tangled up in her mind before they could even try to tumble from her mouth. She hadn’t been ready. She had _just stopped_ being ready.

Then she felt Marie press something into her hand. She glanced up, but he was still looking away, no answers to be found. Her wrapped around it automatically, and when she realized what it was, she felt like crying all over again. It was a ring.

“I love you,” Marie murmured to her quietly. “I would have asked you to marry me.”

Tears started to spill down Miranda’s face. She was so scared. So scared for Noise. For her friends.

Her friends. She was never going to see her friends again.

She was never going to see Noise again.

“I love you, too, Noise,” she whispered back, voice shaking. But she didn’t move, her hand still clenched tight around that ring. “And I would have said yes.”

How long, before all of them fell? How long did the others have?

The circle deactivated, and in unison, both the black-haired CROW and the CROW named Samson attacked.

Two switchblades slid between two pairs of ribs to puncture two hearts in unison.

Miranda’s breath hitched, her eyelids slamming shut, but she couldn’t summon the energy to react any more than that, to react to the sudden blinding pain in her chest, overshadowing every other feeling but Marie’s warmth. A hollow ringing filled her ears, and the world tumbled.

Then, without her notice, she was on the ground. Blood pounded faintly in her ears below the ringing, and below that, Marie’s harsh breathing was painfully loud, his tight grip on her arm starting to loosen.

“Noise,” Miranda croaked, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “Our friends…”

“I know,” Marie rasped, and she heard his breath catch and choke. His hand clenched at her arm, and then fell.

Miranda whimpered quietly, and then the pain was too much for her, and the darkness rose up and swept her away, and she felt nothing. Nothing but cold.

The ring clattered out of her hand, a silver band set with tiny green emeralds.


	3. Kanda

**April 26, 1875 - Banbury, England**

Kanda lived in a small town in England. He lived alone, but the annoying beansprout called every week to pester him, and the stupid old man called every day. Lavi called in erratically, whenever he got a chance, apparently.

Lenalee used to call, too, but for some reason, she’d stopped. It wasn’t like her - she held her friends so close you’d think she’d die without them, and Kanda thought she might. But she still stopped calling.

That had been three months ago.

Kanda hated to admit it to anyone, but he was worried. Restlessness, bad memories, conflicting views – all of these things had driven them to live apart, but there was still no letting go. There was no leaving behind the promises that tied them together, and there was no forgetting the years of tears (why did Lenalee insist on crying on him and why did she have to pass this habit on to Allen) and laughter (in the middle of the goddamn night) and fighting side by side (like they were born to it).

It had been his friends (and it had been the stupid beansprout, of course, who first got him to use the word) who had, in the month following the end of what had, at the time, felt like everything- his friends who had dragged him out of his funk after the Holy War, and who had forced him to find something to occupy himself, something besides training (for what?) and meditation.

So it was their fault he had found out that he liked to grow plants. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

It was, he would reluctantly admit, surprisingly relaxing, and it carried little risk of injury as long as he was careful. And lately, that had been a pretty big concern.

He offered the owner of the garden shop, Mr. Titus, a curt nod and left with his bag of new supplies - a small bag of cactus seeds and some bags of soil. His house was far from the garden shop - stupidly far. But hell, he didn’t mind the walk. It let him stretch his legs and have a look around and scowl at people.

As long as no one tried to _talk_ to him, he was fine.

He nodded back grudgingly when the jeweler waved at him, and ignored the clear invitation to come and talk.

Less easy to ignore was…

“Kanda!”

Downside of staying in one place was that people started trying to _make friends,_ like _weirdos._

He sighed in irritation and glanced over at the potter, who had apparently deemed his passing-by to be an important enough occasion to come out from the shop. “Archie,” he returned resignedly, absently noting the etched vase the man held under one arm.

“Good to see you!” he grinned, but didn’t make the mistake of swinging his arm around Kanda’s shoulders like he did with most people, which was good, because Kanda didn’t feel like taking it off today. “How goes the garden?”

“I’m adding cacti,” Kanda explained shortly, gesturing to his new supplies. “I’ll probably need something to keep the bugs away soon, too, they’re becoming a pain in the ass.” He scowled.

Archie laughed, and Kanda rolled his eyes. “They’re thorny, like your personality,” he teased. “Hey, can you pay old Margaret a visit for me? I wanted to deliver her vase today, but I got a new order in and I want to start on it as soon as possible.”

Kanda grunted and nodded; it wasn’t uncommon for him to run errands for the old lady who lived between the grocer’s and the bookstore, and it wasn’t far out of his way. And the beansprout and the rabbit could shut up about his being ‘soft’. He wasn’t fucking soft.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” Archie smiled, and Kanda rolled his eyes and took the vase, holding it gingerly.

“Shut up,” he muttered, cradling the vase in one arm and holding the bag of garden stuff with the other.

He never would have dreamed of a life like this, back at the Order. It was… strange.

But not bad.

Margaret was very happy with her vase, and with her shaky legs, she got up and hugged him, which made him stiffen and hold very still until she drew away.

“Thank you, dear,” she told him, smiling. He shuffled a little and nodded curtly, looking away, and she laughed at him and gave him a small jar of cookies, even when he tried to reject them because he wasn’t a fucking kid, and he told her so.

He ended up taking the cookies home anyway. Margaret was _pushy._

A one-bed one-bath house served as his home for the foreseeable future, and he set his new finds inside the area he’d set aside for that purpose, then checked on his Venus Flytraps. He fed them (a secret source of amusement for the twenty-one year old) and then turned away to start meticulously filling some new pots (which he’d gotten from Archie a few days before) with the new soil, mixing it carefully according to the garden shop owner’s advice.

Plants were a damn pain in the ass sometimes. It gave him something to focus on, when it was late at night and he couldn’t sleep, or when he thought too long about Lenalee’s silence, or the fact that Marie hadn’t called to announce the wedding yet despite swearing to propose by the end of March-

Anyway, it was nice to grow things instead of kill them, for once.

As he went through the rhythmic work, his thoughts drifted.

Five months since the end of the Holy War. In the beginning, Kanda had felt lost and confused - his sense of purpose had been ripped away from him, without akuma to kill. (He’d always thought he’d die that way, and he almost had.) He, like Lenalee, like Allen, had been raised in this and knew little else, and for a while he hadn’t thought he’d be able to move past that.

But he’d adapted. He’d made a life for himself, and so had everyone else, and now there was this weird _peaceful_ feeling. Like everything would be alright.

Which was stupid, because he would probably die sooner rather than later.

He looked down and paused to push his sleeve up, frowning at a bandage wrapped around his arm. It marked the spot where he’d scraped his elbow on a nail, stupidly sticking out of the wall. That had been three months ago, and it was still bleeding.

So much for _healing._

He shook his head, shrugged, and went back to filling the pots.

Whatever, he’d keep that to himself. He almost wanted to say he was satisfied - he’d done everything he’d ever thought he would, when he’d first been apprenticed to General Tiedoll.

He’d been useful. He’d helped them win. He’d even found Alma, for fuck’s sake, whether in the way he’d meant or not.

The problem was, he’d also made friends. Friends he’d miss. Worse, friends who would miss _him._

Kanda couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He checked the instructions on the packet and started poking holes roughly in the soil. And then he paused, glanced up- and threw himself back.

A pile of spell strips, _CROW_ spell strips, landed where he’d been moments before, and he heard a soft curse. His eyes widened, and then a snarl ripped across his face as his mind processed what lay before him.

The window smashed in. Kanda’s navy eyes flashed, and with a thought, he summoned Mugen, scarcely more than a katana now he couldn’t power it up with his life force.

“Bastards, what do you want from me this time?” he demanded, though he had his suspicions.

Kanda counted five CROW now breaking into his house, the assholes. Two with black hair, two with blond, one with brown. Most of them with that stupid self-righteous expression.

One of the blondies looked uncomfortable, though.

The CROW with brown hair and eyes stepped forward, gaze determined. Yep, there was that righteous look Kanda hated. He bared his teeth.

“Kanda Yuu,” he began, tone neutral, giving nothing away. “Second exorcist, general, eleven years of experience, 146% synchro. High risk.”

Yeah, that just about did it for Kanda. He snarled and cursed his own stupidity. “You’re here to kill me. You’re done using me up, so you’re going to kill me - kill all of us, I’d bet.” The exorcists had never been human to Central. They’d never been anything but weapons.

Blondie looked more uncomfortable.

One of the guys, with black hair and green eyes, sneered. “You’re an exorcist,” he said scornfully. “You didn’t deserve to live in the first place. You were just a desperate measure.”

Typical. Well, Kanda had always known that. All the way from the very beginning.

Kanda offered a feral grin. “Desperate measure, huh?” He lunged, katana swinging, and the CROW ducked, and the fight started.

Spell strips and needles went flying; Kanda avoided them all, because as soon as he was hit, that was probably the fight over. Switchblades flashed and whipped through the air, and he avoided those, too, eyes narrowed and intent, blood running hot through his veins.

He was already losing too much blood just from the cut on his elbow - a knife wound would probably finish him off in days, even if it were minor. Owing to how ‘not healing’ included ‘not producing any new blood’.

His katana bit into the shoulder of the green-eyed man, who cursed, and the uncomfortable blondie had apparently gotten over his problem, because he slammed into Kanda, who let out a grunt and crashed into a table. It shook hard enough for the pots to fall to the ground, smashing, and shards of clay were scattered across the floor along with heaps of soil and growing plant matter. The jar of cookies fell as well, and they rolled across the ground and were crushed underfoot.

Kanda wondered how many of his friends were dead already.

He supposed he knew, now, why Lenalee had stopped calling. Why Marie hadn’t fucking gone through with the damn proposal.

The thought filled him with rage, and suddenly, he no longer cared if he died, or how much it hurt. His eyes burned, a snarl overtook his mouth, and he lunged with renewed energy.

Tiedoll had just found his family again. Lenalee had started learning from her brother. Marie and Miranda were _sick_ in love, Lavi was doing his fucking Bookman thing again, Allen was the happiest he’d fucking been since Kanda had goddamn met him-

And the Order- the Order was going to _take that away._

He heard nothing but the roar in his ears. He felt nothing but the burn of his rage. Images flashed before his eyes, switchblade clashing with katana, flying splashes of red, smashing furniture, startled and disappointed and self-satisfied looks.

He screamed in more anger than pain, the slash of a knife only just missing his eyes but blinding him with blood. It distracted him enough to stumble into a table, and he snarled out a curse and turned, but it was too late. Too _fucking_ late.

A spell strip hit his left leg, and quickly its fellows joined it, making it heavy and hard to move. Kanda did anyway, wiping the blood roughly from his eyes; his anger gave him energy, and he channeled it, as he always did.

He knew how to handle anger.

He knew how to handle vengeance.

But the fight was lost, and another set wrapped around his other leg, and then one of his arms, and the other, and he bared his teeth, growling at the CROWs, even as Mugen was ripped from his grip and he fell to his knees, and his hands were bound behind his back.

He ached all over. He knew he’d been cut in several places, probably while he was raging and not paying general attention. He was going to die.

He didn’t care. If everyone else was, too, then he had nothing more to live for.

“Bastards,” he hissed. “We weren’t ever really people to you, were we?”

Blondie looked guilty. Brunnet looked startled. Fuck them both, they were obviously stupid.

“No,” Green-eyes replied, and his switchblade sank into Kanda’s stomach and ripped up.

Pain followed in the blade’s wake and he let out a yell, arching back. It had sunk halfway through his flesh and slashed all the way out his shoulder, and it grated, horrible and rattling, against his ribs, and-

He was dying. He was dying on the ground, and he panted harshly, and he glared.

“Bastards,” he repeated, a breathy word even he could barely hear. It was cold. It hurt. He was dying. After a long time coming, it was here. “I’ll... see you... in Hell.”

Kanda’s eyes shut, and he hit the ground with a thud he never heard.

He would see his friends soon, he was sure.


	4. Allen

The team put on Operation Brimstone consisted of five people.

Peter, the team leader and the most experienced, had black hair, green eyes, and an undying hatred for exorcists, which he had never explained. Then there was John, with blond hair and brown eyes, who was loyal to CROW to his last breath.

After that was David, brown hair and eyes, undoubtedly loyal to the cause, and Matthew, black hair brown eyes, just the same but with a secret soft spot for children. The last and the least experienced was Samson, with blond hair and blue eyes, who was well known to be a soft touch as CROWs went.

After Kanda Yuu, they took out Arystar Krory in Greece, the contents of his suitcase spilled across the ground as he travelled into yet another city.

Then Winters Zokalo in Ukraine, set up to look like a hit gone wrong for the bounty hunter.

Then Froi Tiedoll in Paris, his sister dying with him to keep their task a secret.

And Chaoji Han in China, alone at home.

It wasn’t hard; as long as they caught them by surprise, they were fine. They could bind them, their Innocence and their bodies, and then kill them at their leisure. Most of them fought back; none of them won.

But Samson was starting to have his doubts, and like the amateur he was, he let them show.

“The apostles. Do they really all have to die?” he asked John without looking up, focusing on the report under his pen, pretending like it was a conversation with no importance.

“Yes,” John replied without hesitation.

“Why?” Samson pushed. It was a little late to be doubting, of course, but… Better late than never.

“They’re dangerous,” John explained tonelessly, but the look he gave Samson was sharp and discerning. David was visibly listening as well; the peacefulness with which the exorcists had been living before their interference had unsettled the CROW. “Not like us, as I’m sure you remember. No, no – they’re weapons. Meant only to earn humanity its victory against the akuma. Now that the Holy War is over, all traces of it must be wiped away – the apostles included.”

Samson was not convinced. John looked almost concerned as he gave the blue-eyed man one last look, and added,

“Do not let Peter hear you asking about this. You do not want to go the way of Howard Link.”

Howard Link was dead, and his name was almost a curse among the CROWs – the CROW who had risen above his station and himself become an apostle. Samson didn’t swallow, because CROWs did not show apprehension, and nodded in acknowledgement.

* * *

**December 21, 1875 - Alberta, Canada**

Allen lived in Canada. He worked in a small bookstore on the corner near his house, and he knew everyone in town by face and name. He also called every surviving exorcist once a week, whether they liked it or not.

Over the course of the last eleven months, eight exorcists had stopped answering, and Allen was deeply suspicious, on top of being worried. Lenalee had been reluctant to even go her own way, Marie had promised to send out wedding announcements, Kanda was an ass but he’d always answered-

He gave his packed bag one last look, sighed, and picked up the phone to call Cross.

Cross was constantly moving around, which meant that Allen was the only one who could ever find him, and only because he knew the man so well. He called the number of three brothels before he found the one Cross was in currently, and then he chatted with the madam for a bit, pretending that nothing was wrong. Finally, the phone was passed to Cross, who demanded,

“Are you calling more often now, stupid apprentice? Am I going to have to stop answering just to get any fucking peace?”

“Shut up, stupid Master,” Allen snapped back, heart clenching anxiously, a hollow knowledge sitting in his chest that he determinedly ignored. “I called to let you know that I’m leaving Alberta today and I’m not coming back.”

For a few minutes, a heavy silence drifted over the phone. Cross was many things, but obtuse was not among them; he was one of the most perceptive men Allen knew. And he knew as well as Allen did that leaving one of the few pockets of peace he’d known was the _last_ thing he wanted to do, let alone so close to his birthday.

Which was why he’d put it off so long.

“Why should I care, stupid apprentice?” Cross’ voice was suspicious.

Allen ignored the question and said instead, in a voice that was careful and measured, “Some of our _friends_ have stopped answering me lately, and I’m a little worried about them.” He hesitated, and then finished, “Master, if I miss a call, even once… I want you to go under the radar.”

Cross was silent for a few more moments. Allen waited.

“How many?” Cross asked finally.

“Eight. Lenalee, Miranda, Marie, Kanda, Krory, General Zokalo, General Tiedoll, and Chaoji.”

And Chaoji wouldn’t have been a cause for concern, or Zokalo- maybe not even Tiedoll. But the one time Miranda had missed a call she’d spent ten minutes apologizing the next week, and Krory was always happy to talk about the places he’d visited, while Lenalee never failed to talk to him for at least half an hour and Kanda- Allen knew Kanda too well to think he’d break away now.

“Fine.” To his credit, Cross showed no signs of being at all alarmed by this. Allen almost hated him for it. “And I would’ve anyway, dumbass; you wouldn’t miss one of these for anything short of your own death.” A brief moment of hesitation. “Don’t get yourself caught, stupid apprentice, or I’ll bring you back just to beat your ass.”

Allen almost smiled. “Stupid Master, if I get caught, you know who it is.”

Because Cross had about as much faith in the Vatican as Allen did, and there was only one group who would be able to find either of them on the run.

Shortly after that, Allen hung up and picked up his bag to sling it over the shoulder, then opened the door and left, not looking back and not bothering to lock the door behind him. He had one more goodbye to say, and then he would leave, and he wouldn’t look back then, either.

Like most of the exorcists, he’d been left with lingering effects when the Holy War ended. However, unlike them, he had a relatively easy time adjusting; after all, he’d lived the first ten years of his life without the use of his left arm. He could do it again. The blindness in his left eye was a little more difficult, but certainly not impossible, and he’d gotten used to it - to both handicaps.

He pushed open the door to the bookstore, shut it, and then waved at the woman inside. Mrs. McKenna was the owner of the bookstore and therefore his boss, but they were fairly close.

“Mrs. McKenna,” he greeted with a smile; the woman had given up trying to get him to call her ‘Penny’ after the first few months.

“Allen,” she returned warmly, but she also looked sort of like she was about to cry, which meant she’d heard already. Sure enough, “You’re leaving today, then?”

He smiled at her apologetically. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be,” she said urgently, hurrying around the counter to come up and hug him. He tried not to stiffen too much (she always got the saddest look when he did that) and hugged back carefully with his good arm. After a few moments, she let go and stepped back to smile at him. “I should have known a wandering soul like you would only stay so long.”

He smiled at her weakly. If only it were that simple. “I’ll miss you,” he told her. “And everyone here.”

She chuckled. “I know you will,” she replied fondly. “And we’ll miss you too, darling. You’re such a joy to be around.” Allen ducked his head and smiled bashfully, and she laughed and teased, “Who’s going to take over Milton’s shifts now?”

“He can do it,” Allen mumbled, cheeks a little red. “He’s stronger than he thinks he is, and I’m sure he can make it through, even when he’s sick.” He shot her a concerned look. “You’ll look after him, though, right?”

She nodded, smiling. “The world needs more boys like you, Allen Walker.” Her eyes lingered, concerned, on his left arm, which he couldn’t move well enough to make a fist or even lift above his waist, and flicked to his scar as well before settling on him again. “You take care of yourself, understand? I know you’ve had a lot of bad luck, but it’ll get better.”

“I will,” he promised solemnly. He smiled. “And I know.”

She smiled at him and, from under the desk, produced a small package, which she gave to him. “Here. A present for you. Open it on Christmas, won’t you?”

Allen looked startled. “You didn’t have to-”

“Of course I didn’t. I wanted to.”

He smiled a little, soft, and, under her watchful eye, juggled things around a little before he placed it in his bag. “Thank you,” he said, and it was heartfelt.

Outside, it was snowing gently, just drifting down to nestle and melt in his hair and shoulders and settle in the creases of his bag and his clothes. A thin coat covered the ground, and he left a trail of footprints behind him.

He didn’t make it five miles away from the town before he was attacked.

Allen’s heart just about stopped when the five CROW slid out of the trees around him, and he spared a moment to curse himself before he dropped his bag (too light to do any damage) and jerked into motion.

Of course they’d been waiting. _Of course._

Blind in one eye and with his left arm down for good, Allen wasn’t nearly as good as he’d been with the Order. But he’d lived the first ten years of his life without the use of his left arm, and he’d been fighting every minute.

There were five CROW; two blondes, one with brown hair, two with black.

Black hair green eyes was clearly the leader, with familiar hatred in his eyes, and two of them looked uncertain (brown hair and brown-eyed blond).

Allen barely noticed, because an anger he hadn’t felt this strongly in _years_ was roaring through his veins like fire, and a long-forgotten scowl marred his face.

“I knew it,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I _knew_ it, you bloody, rat-faced…” He clenched his fist; it shook, too. “I only _wish_ I could say I couldn’t believe you’re doing this, but I never had that much faith in you.” His eyes filled with furious tears. “But those were my _friends,_ you bastards.”

Allen had always had reservations about ordinary humans; he had a history, after all. He knew that, he acknowledged that, and he tried to be fair about it, even if it was hard.

People like this were the reason why.

When he was upset, when he was angry, Allen fought like a street rat. Rough and dirty and thoroughly uncultured, but it worked like a witch’s charm and he was holding his own, because his left arm wasn’t working but his Innocence’s strength hadn’t left him.

They talked, but Allen wasn’t listening; like fighting one-armed, tuning people out had been a survival skill for years, and he didn’t want to hear a word they had to say.

Any lingering doubts he might have had were banished by this. His friends, everyone who’d stopped calling, were dead now, and while he was still good, he was under no illusions. He could not beat the CROW, and even if he could, he could not run for long. So he didn’t fight to live. He fought to _hurt._

Because soon, the rest of his friends would probably be dead, too.

Tears were pouring down Allen’s face and froze on his cheeks, and his mouth was set in a snarl that was painful and desperate and furious. A leg swept under one CROW’s feet (and missed) and his right fist slammed roughly into another’s jaw, and he took a blow to the back of the head and the sternum and his ribs, and the whole time, he cried for his friends.

Even fueled by anger, Allen couldn’t keep it up forever. Soon enough, he started to slow, panting with exhaustion and bleeding badly, vision blurring and head aching, and a long string of spell tags wrapped around his arm.

That was all it took. Allen was jerked into a sudden stop, and he let out a whine and collapsed into the snow, unable to move, still crying without a sound, shivering softly from the cold and the shock and the grief and betrayal.

He wondered if this was why Link had disappeared, after everything.

His face was pressed into the icy white ground and he couldn’t see, his sightless eye the only one exposed. He heard cautious steps approaching, a nudge of a foot making sure he was down. He felt his legs bound together, but he ignored it. Soon enough it wouldn’t matter.

“Allen Walker,” one of them said finally, sounding tired but satisfied. “Combat general, eight years of experience, 154% synchro. Medium risk.”

“Medium?” another asked, startled. “With _that_ level of fighting ability?”

“He was known to be gentle and likable,” the first explained, indifferent, “and he placed a high level of value on the lives of others. However, his history is unknown, and he has familial connections to the Fourteenth Noah and the Millennium Earl.”

“...And we’re killing him?” The second sounded horrified. “For _that?”_

“It’s not your place to question, Samson,” the first said sharply. “Watch yourself. John, go ahead.”

Allen let out a long, shuddering breath as a knife slid into his back, and he could no longer feel his legs, and it hurt, it really hurt, and the knife twisted and he whimpered and it was pulled out. Wet warmth spread across his back, but he felt cold inside.

One of them, neither of the original speakers, reached down and Allen flinched as he felt fingers card through his hair, strangely gentle. “I’d like it to be known that I disagree with this decision.”

“Noted, David. And you’ve been warned. It doesn’t pay to have mercy on the exorcists. They’re monsters, and ordinary humans oughtn’t to have anything to do with them.”

Allen shivered, and the world faded away.

Above him, Samson crossed to the bag, picked up the present, and, out of morbid curiosity, unwrapped it. It held a small cookbook, and a card.

_From me to you, Allen Walker. Take care of yourself, and I wish you well wherever you go._


	5. Nyne and Timothy

**January 20, 1876 - Mirsk, Poland**

Klaud Nyne and Timothy Hearst lived in Poland. Timothy went to school every day, and Nyne worked as a teacher there, though for students younger than Timothy.

Right now, Nyne was watching from afar as Timothy ran about and played with some of his classmates - six children of ages ranging from six to twelve.

Nyne was wary, which was why she was currently keeping an eye on Timothy instead of letting him run wild. (He was, after all, fully capable of taking care of himself. Usually.) The reason for this was that Walker had not called once in the last month.

Now, she had never been particularly close to Walker. Timothy had been quite close to him, but still not as much as, say, Lee or the Bookman’s apprentice. So it might not be that strange - except Walker was so very _determined_ about his calls, and hadn’t missed one in the fourteen months since the war ended. Plus, he’d seemed a little anxious toward the end, inquiring after their wellbeing with a strange edge to his voice.

So she was watching. Just in case.

Timothy was, at the moment, playing tag. With him were two twelve year olds, a ten year old, a seven year old, and a six year old.

Despite not quite being the oldest, Timothy was clearly (and understandably) the most mature out of all of them - but he’d hit that hotspot where he was mature enough that he oozed enough confidence to attract the attention of every other child his age, but not so much so that he could no longer relate to them.

He was leading the play, she noticed with a hint of pride. Keeping the other children from getting too rowdy, taking note whenever one of them was being left out, and even the two twelve year olds were listening to him.

He’d grown up over the last two years. And he’d been so immature to start with… She smiled.

As she watched, one of the twelve year olds accidentally got the seven year old a little too hard, and the little boy fell, face first, into a particularly deep drift of snow. Tears welled up in his eyes and he started showing those _dreaded_ warning signs of crying (Nyne remembered them well from Timothy’s early days, before he built up a tolerance for pain) and Timothy was there in a moment.

She smiled again and took a moment to look around, eyes flicking over the people within her range of sight, intent and cautious.

Out on the street, Timothy crouched beside seven-year-old Eddie. “That was a tumble,” he remarked brightly, pretending he didn’t notice the tears rolling down the sniffling boy’s face. He plopped down beside him and ruffled his hair. “That was pretty mean of John, huh?”

Eddie sniffled and nodded, and Timothy helped him sit up. “Yeah, it was mean,” he mumbled.

“Think we should get him back?” Timothy asked him, eyes lit with mischief. Eddie brightened slightly.

“But he’s huge,” he protested.

Timothy stifled a laugh - the twelve year old was a baby compared to an akuma - and replied, “Nah, I bet we could take him.”

Eddie eyed him hesitantly, and then said, “Yeah!”

“Great!” Timothy grinned at him and they both stood up, and John started to back away warily.

This would have culminated in both Eddie and Timothy eventually charging the older boy, and Timothy ultimately cornering him so that Eddie could catch him, but Timothy was startled out of his focus by a call of his name.

“Timothy! Come here!”

Timothy jumped and looked over to Nyne, head tilted inquisitively. He almost winced; she looked serious - serious like he hadn’t seen her since they’d come here. He turned and gave Eddie an apologetic look. “Sorry, Eddie, looks like you’ll have to get John all on your own.”

Eddie deflated. “Timothy!” he whined.

“You gotta go?” John asked wisely, heading over. Timothy nodded, and then jogged over to Nyne, who waited for him patiently.

“Master?” he asked, as soon as he was within range. “What is it?”

“Follow me, and be wary,” she ordered him, deadly serious, and he grew solemn too, frowning slightly. Nyne spun around and started to walk, brisk but not urgent - or rather, desperately wanting _not_ to appear urgent, he thought.

The farther they went, the more suspicious Timothy became. Nyne was acting almost like they were on a mission, watching everything and everyone, and, if he remembered Allen’s quick talk correctly, she was behaving almost like she was trying to shake a tail.

So he started to turn wary, too. He looked over his shoulder and down the streets, and he turned his head sharply at loud noises, and he was tense and ready like a loaded spring.

He didn’t ask what was going on, because Nyne probably wouldn’t tell him until later. But he got that it was dangerous, and it was dangerous _now._

Therefore, when three people sprang from an alley to surround them in an empty street, it wasn’t much of a surprise that both exorcists reacted violently.

Timothy took them in over the course of a moment, which was still longer than it took Nyne. A moment after she had attacked one of the men (with black hair and green eyes), he sprang at another, a man with blond hair and brown eyes, and screamed, “DADDY!”

Never say that Timothy was not good at improvising, and he’d found myriad ways to _create_ an opening if there wasn’t an obvious one.

Sure enough, the man looked shocked and alarmed, and he slammed his head into the man’s, slipped in, and caught his body as it fell to the ground.

While Nyne grappled with the man she’d attacked, the other moved in to wrestle with him, and for the first time, Timothy noticed who they were. His eyes, or the man’s eyes, went wide and startled and scared.

“You’re CROW?” he asked in a very small voice that wasn’t his. The man looked somewhat alarmed, but he didn’t falter once, because he was, after all, a _professional._ “What are you doing? What did we do?”

The man took a deep breath, and replied, mechanical and a little strained, “Timothy Hearst. Combat exorcist, two years of experience, 72% synchro. High risk.”

It sounded almost like he was reminding himself, but Timothy wasn’t paying attention to that just now. Those words - most specifically, the last two - were enough of an explanation, and he gritted his teeth, trying not to cry for the first time in _years._ “You’re… you’re killing us?” He pushed back in a body that had a lot less strength than he was used to, but still enough to make the man strain. “Why?”

Allen hadn’t called in a while, he realized belatedly.

The CROW didn’t seem to have an answer; he threw Timothy aside instead, slamming him into the ground, and Timothy rolled away and sprang up before he could be hit with a spell strip or worse.

Timothy’s body was limp on the ground, and with both him and Nyne tied up he prayed they’d ignore it. And that it wouldn’t freeze to death.

Lau Jimin had died in the last fight of the war, but its Innocence was still active, somewhere, and Nyne had kept the experience and enhancements of an exorcist, but that was all - there was no Lau Jimin to help this time.

They fought together, hard and fierce, sometimes back-to-back and sometimes not. Timothy was shaking and tearing up, trying his very best not to lose focus and cry, but it was hard. He’d just wanted out. He’d just wanted to make more friends.

He took it back, if it meant he could’ve kept the friends he’d had already.

The man in front of him, with black hair and brown eyes, was visibly faltering even as Timothy attacked him, over and over, harsh and desperate. But the four of them remained at a stalemate up until Nyne lost track of her location, dodged without looking, and a Flame Wing settled on Timothy’s body. And then it burst.

Timothy _screamed;_ his vision whited out and he couldn’t hear or feel anything but how much it _hurt._ Unseen by him, Nyne whirled around, horrified, and the brown-eyed took a step back, face shutting down a moment after shock flitted across it. The man’s breath visibly stuttered. No one noticed but the green-eyed CROW.

“Timothy!” Nyne called out before she could stop herself, reaching out for just a moment before she snatched it back, and fury settled over her features.

After a few moments, the possessed man’s body collapsed as Timothy lost his hold on his Innocence, and a few moments after, Timothy was dead, still burning on the ground.

Nyne let out a growl, low and animal like Lau Jimin, and sprang with no weapon save her flying fists. But while the black-haired brown-eyed man was hanging back a little, looking reluctant, the other two went after her with new energy after their success.

She fought back long and hard, burning for revenge for her downed pupil, who she’d thought could grow up and have a life someday, and for all the others who couldn’t do the same because of them, because of these CROW.

Finally, though, the green-eyed man got a solid hold of one of her arms and would not let go, no matter how much she struggled. He gave the brown-eyed man a look, and reluctantly, he grabbed Nyne’s other.

The blond had apparently recovered, and he marched up to her and gave her a long look.

“Klaud Nyne,” he said finally, rough a little rough and breathing a little heavy. He was wincing, and it satisfied her only a little that he was clearly in some serious pain. “Combat general, twenty-one years of experience, 139% synchro. High risk.”

She glared at him viciously and thought of all the things she’d like to do to a man like him, but instead she said, “Burn in Hell.”

He didn’t react, not even a little, and a moment later, she shut her eyes and held back a scream as his switchblade was buried in her throat. She arched slightly and a hoarse cry escaped as the knife was twisted, and the men watched as she dropped to the ground and bled into the snow, gasping for breath, wincing and trying not to make any noise.

“I can’t do this anymore,” the black-haired brown-eyed man said suddenly.

The green-eyed CROW glared at him. “Then you’ll join David and Samson.”

The man stared at Nyne, dying on the ground, and then looked at Timothy’s still-burning body with bare ground all around him, and swallowed. “Gladly,” he whispered. “And may I be punished for my crimes, for I have sinned.”

“You have now.”


	6. Cross, Bookman, and Lavi

**May 2, 1876 - Manzhouli, China**

Cross was on the run.

He didn’t know how far Allen had made it, but he’d missed the very next call after he warned Cross, which meant the stupid idiot had gotten himself caught ridiculously quickly. Probably they’d known he was leaving before Allen himself did; he was disgustingly predictable at times.

One way or another, that meant one thing: it was, most likely, CROW.

Cross had had his suspicions, of course. He’d never had faith in the Vatican, and Leverrier had always been an ass. In fact, Central had been one of his biggest worries since he’d first joined the Order. But even he hadn’t really thought they’d stoop this low. Clearly he’d been wrong.

Clearly over twenty years working for them wasn’t enough for even Cross to get a good idea of what they were really like.

He couldn’t run forever, though.

It was a shame, really. He’d even gone to the trouble of making it out of the war more or less intact, and then this popped up. Hell. His apprentice had even seemed _happy_ for a while, and God knew how rare _that_ was for an exorcist.

Didn’t have time to brood, though. He’d have one last hurrah before he left for good, and he was going to make damn sure he had fun.

If he was going to die anyway, he may as well end it on his own terms.

He’d been planning to drink himself to death anyway. He’d forgotten to plan for the unlikely scenario of him getting out of the war alive.

* * *

The moment word reached them of General Cross’ location, two CROWs approached with a plan of attack, prepared to get this over with as quickly as physically possible, so as to not die.

Instead, they entered his current hideout and found him dead on the floor, with a gun wound in his head and Judgement still in his hand. On the ground beside him was a note.

John picked it up.

_I didn’t let you dictate my life, and you’re sure as hell not going to dictate my death. Also, fuck you._

John put it down.

Peter found something else entirely.

_“How much debt can one man gather in one night?”_

* * *

**July 6, 1876 - Black Hills, USA**

Lavi’s name was, at the moment, David.

He tried not to think of the fact that he was still thinking of himself as ‘Lavi’, even almost two years and seven names after he’d left that name behind.

The name, but not the people, which was probably the problem. As much as he loved his job, loved being a Bookman – it wasn’t the same when he could remember Lenalee’s tearful relief when he’d woken up, after being rescued from the Noah. It wasn’t the same when Allen always sounded so happy to hear from him. Hell, it didn’t even compare to Kanda’s contented sniping.

So. Lavi stuck around.

And he was worried; he’d been trying to keep in contact with the exorcists, but lately, they just hadn’t been picking up. One by one, they’d vanished off the map, and he didn’t have a clue why. Bookman might, but he wasn’t telling, and Lavi sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

“David.”

Lavi wasn’t paying attention.

_“David.”_

Oh, right, that was him. David, not Lavi, not anymore. He winced and glanced over, expecting Bookman to be giving him that _reproachful_ look, but he was instead looking at him knowingly, which was almost worse. Subconsciously, Lavi reached to cover his prosthetic hand with his real one.

He knew that Bookman was only pretending not to know that he was still in contact with the exorcists. He appreciated it, but it still felt weird and uncomfortable.

“We have recordings to make, David,” Bookman reminded him quietly. “Let’s go.”

David nodded absently. “Right. I understand.” ‘David’ was a loyal grandson, after all, and quiet, and compliant.

Nothing at all like ‘Lavi’, in other words. None of his more recent personalities had been, and privately, Lavi was glad of it. It was already hard enough to remember, to go back, at least partially, to what he’d been before.

They started to make their way across the small town, and it was boiling hot, which Lavi was paying just enough attention to notice. As usual, he took in everything around him and committed it to memory, but he wasn’t paying attention, not really.

Had his old friends started to resent him? Was that why they were no longer answering?

Or, worse, had something happened? Were they no longer _able_ to answer?

As a Bookman, Lavi had a responsibility to detach himself from the world around him. He could have no attachments and no biases. He should have nothing that he would throw away everything for.

He’d screwed that up already, and they both knew it; the bangle of crystal blood around his left wrist, the intact one, was proof enough of that. Lavi just couldn’t bring himself to repay his friends’ loyalty with indifference. It wasn’t in his nature.

Bookman was doing him a kindness, not having disowned him, expelled him from the Bookman clan. It was something that could end up costing the old man everything.

And Lavi was sorry for that. He _was._ But he just _couldn’t do it._ It was stupid, it was pathetic, but he couldn’t forget about the Order. He couldn’t forget his friends.

He couldn’t let go of his heart.

Bookman perked up sharply, and Lavi glanced down questioningly.

“Old man?” he asked under his breath.

“Quiet, boy,” Bookman murmured back, gaze intent and dark. Suspicious, Lavi wanted to call it.

Distracted from his thoughts, he followed Bookman’s gaze as subtly as he could, and barely kept from starting.

There were two men, almost blending into the crowd. But they carried themselves like soldiers, and both of them had the characteristic two-dot mark on their forehead. CROW – but what were CROW doing here?

Doing here – looking at them.

Lavi glanced back down at Bookman, who hadn’t taken his gaze from the CROW. His darkly colored prosthetic hand wandered over to roughly clasp the red Innocence ring. Around them, oblivious people flowed in a constant trickle, going about as if nothing at all was going on.

Then Bookman looked up at him, and Lavi realized he hadn’t seen an expression like that on the old man’s face since Lavi had gone crystal. As if Lavi was damned, and there wasn’t a thing Bookman could do about it.

Lavi’s mouth opened slightly, words forming on the back of his tongue – what did Bookman know? Was there something he wasn’t telling Lavi? What was he resigned to?

Bookman gestured, and Lavi was moving before he had time to think about it, both of them making their way through the sparse crowd to the other end of the street. Lavi half-glanced behind them, and the CROW were following them.

Tension thrummed in his chest steadily, and his human hand clenched around a handle that wasn’t there. Suddenly his mind was racing, and things that didn’t make sense before started to fall into place.

Before they ever reached the end of the road, Lavi understood that the corruption of Central extended past the end of the war. By the time they did, cold had wrapped around his chest as he realized that this was the end of _his_ road.

Bookman looked up at him, caught his wide green eye, and let his mouth twist into a grimace.

“I hope,” Bookman said in a low voice, colored with weariness and a faint hint of anger, “that you have no regrets.”

Lavi blinked, startled, and then managed a grin for the old man.

“Never have,” he replied, as sincere in meaning as it was flippant in tone.

Bookman held his gaze, and then his mouth curved into a small, rare smile, and he gave Lavi a nod, a glint of pride in his eyes.

Then the old man turned, and his hand came up to bat aside a CROW needle Lavi hadn’t even seen coming. Lavi cursed under his breath and whirled on the street they’d left behind, just registering that this one was much less busy, and the CROWs were almost on them.

Lavi bared his teeth in a fierce grin, and with a bright flash of green, activated his Innocence.

The grin was bravado; Lavi was furious, and maybe, just maybe, a little scared. The CROW _could_ kill them, but they could also bring them in.

Lavi had had quite enough of that, thanks.

The two of them together, Lavi and Bookman, they whirled and battled against the CROW, cursed needles against blessed ones, hammer against switchblade. Sparks flew with each clash, and then the spell strips started too.

Lavi let out a yell as the first strip plastered itself against his side and burst briefly into flame, a flash of fire that consumed itself in seconds but left a burn that was too cold to hurt, too numb to touch. His flesh hand hovered over it as he bent double, his prosthetic hand trembling as it struggled to keep a hold of his hammer.

Then he looked up at Bookman, who, despite being locked in battle still, glanced over to look at him, his made-up eyes casting him a significant look.

Bookman’s gaze travelled deliberately from Lavi’s eyes, to his hammer, and then the man grunted as his attention cost him, and a needle was buried in his shoulder. He stumbled back, and another went into his chest, and then his stomach.

It took Lavi a moment. A moment, and another painful, deadly flame tag, this one too close to his face. And then another, and another, and then he was screaming.

He thought of his friends. Of Lenalee waking him up from every nightmare. Of Kanda calling him a sentimental fool. Of Allen talking him down every time he was lost in flashbacks.

Then he felt rage like Arctic winter rising in his chest, a useless barrier against the flame tags that were driving him to his knees and threatening to make him drop his Innocence. Instead, he tightened his grip, raised the volume of his screams, and slammed his hammer down onto the pavement in a blaze of radiation green.

The street was consumed in flame.


End file.
